Athica Lane: The Carpino Series (2 page)

“What are you doing tonight?  We should take in a movie, maybe grab a late dinner?” he asks.

I shake my head as I drive, “I can’t.  I got behind and need to work tonight.  I told you I’m keeping Sophia’s boys next week, I’ve got a lot to do.”

“Not a big deal.  I’ll bring over pizza and beer, keep you company,” he says brightly, intruding into my quiet night of work. 

“I’m really behind.  I need to focus,” I insist.

“Come on, Paige.  It’s Friday.  You need to relax a little bit.  You can catch up this weekend,” he keeps on.

I shake my head at myself and do what I always do—give in—because I have a hard time saying no to people.  “Okay, just for a bit.  But don’t bring a pizza, I have a ton of BBQ with all the sides I made today for the blog, but bring beer.  Remember I can’t hang out all night, I have work to do.”

“Cool.  I love it when you feed me.  See you in an hour,” I hear him smile over the phone making me silently groan because, again, I don’t know what to do about him.

I don’t have tons of friends outside of the Carpinos.  My family is huge and I never have to venture far for friendships.  I do have a new friend, Rosa, but she’s eighty-five.  I take her to the grocery store and hang out a couple times a week.  Maybe it’s time I expand my horizons, widen my network.  What I do know is Brian is pushing the friendship boundary lately and I don’t like it. 

I’ll work tonight, edit the pictures I took today and get started on my articles.  I’ve got a dinner to cater next Thursday that needs to be planned and I grit my teeth as I think about having to do laundry.  If my favorite tank is ruined, my day will officially suck.  I’ll try soaking it in bleach first. 

Damn the Dr. Pepper-drinking blue-eyed asshole. 

*****

“When are you going to move?  You can afford something nicer, not to mention bigger now that you’ve got ‘
Birds’
up and running,” Brian says from behind me where he’s lounging on my old sofa. 

I turn away from my computer to shoot him a dirty look, “Don’t make fun of my business.  People love the name and my logo kicks ass.”

“I still don’t get what it has to do with food,” he says.

I turn back to my work and continue to edit the images as I explain, “I told you, it has nothing to do with food.  It has to do with me.  Birds of a Feather, like the saying, they stick together.  It’s about family, supporting each other, you know.”

“I guess,” he sighs.  “Maybe that’s why I don’t get it.”

This time I turn fully around and spout, “You need to stop.  Your mom and sister are great.  Just because you don’t have a huge family doesn’t mean you don’t have what I have.  You might’ve lost your dad when you were young, but the three of you are tight and they love you.  I hate it when you talk that way.”

Brian’s dad died when he was just six-years-old and besides his mom and sister, he really doesn’t have a large extended family.  He’s got his own lot of guy friends, but I’m pretty sure I’m the only one he ever talks to about his dad, and even I know little about him.  Brian mentioned he had health problems and his mom once alluded to the fact it was more, but never elaborated.  It’s not my place to ask and I never have.  I’ve seen pictures of his dad at his mom’s house and Brian is a carbon copy.  Tall and lanky, but fit, with the same shock of brown hair and deep brown eyes. 

He gives me a half grin and drains the last of his beer before saying, “Relax little one, I don’t need any counseling.  I’d better go so you can work.  Thanks for dinner.  If it looks as good on the Internet as it tastes, you’ll hit it out of the park.”

I get up and walk him the whole seven steps to my apartment door and smile up at him.  Giving him a sideways one-armed hug, I say, “Thanks.  And thanks for the beer.”

He returns my only-for-friends hug, “No problem.  Maybe I’ll swing by your sister’s next week, hang out with you and the kids.”

“I don’t know, give me a call first,” I say.  Tonight has been good—Brian hasn’t pushed our friendship boundary once.  Maybe he got the hint and I won’t have to say anything after all. 

He gives me one more grin before leaving and says, “Lock up.”

I roll my eyes before slamming my door on his heels.  Men.  Like I’m not going to lock my door.  Do they all think we’re idiots or something? 

“I’m here to pick up Noah and Cayden Woods and, ah,” I look down at my phone to find the names of Sophia’s neighbor’s kids.  “Oh, here it is.  Jordan and Caroline Montgomery.”

“That’s Jordy and Cara.  I’ll need to see a photo ID before I send them out,” the counselor explains, as if I’m trying to break in to this high security day camp for kids.  I pull out my wallet, proving I’m not a crazy kidnapper.

“Paige Carpino,” she reads my license.  “Great, you’re on the pickup list for all of them.  Sign here and I’ll have them get their stuff.”

I sign all four kids out of what seems to be a kid’s camp penitentiary.  A couple minutes later my nephews, along with a boy who’s a bit bigger than Noah and a tiny little blonde girl come running out to me.  Noah and Cayden slam into me like usual, giving me hugs and the other two hang back a bit cautious. 

“Hey guys,” I greet my nephews and look up to the other two with a big smile.  “You must be Jordan and Caroline.  I’m Paige, Noah and Cayden’s aunt.  You guys are going to hang with me this week.”

“I’m Jordy and this is Cara,” the boy says, a bit guarded. 

Jordy’s a big kid, not just tall but solid.  He has short dark blond hair with brown eyes.  He’s the exact opposite of his little sister.  Cara’s a tiny little thing with long pale blonde hair and beautiful blue eyes. 

“Well, nice to meet you Jordy and Cara.  How old are you?” I ask, as little Cara hides behind her brother. 

“I’m seven,” Jordy answers.  I look to Cara but she puts her face in her brother’s arm.  Jordy goes on, “She’s five.  She’s quiet sometimes.”

I grin at Cara as she peeks around her brother, “There’s nothing wrong with being quiet.”

“Can we have ice cream?” Noah yells up at me.

“I went to the store today and have all kinds of goodies for the week.  I thought we’d bake cookies and make ice cream sandwiches.  How does that sound?” I ask.

“I don’t wanna make cookies,” Cayden frowns.

“Then you can play outside and I’ll bake cookies.  And because I love you, I’ll let you eat some anyway,” I grin.

“Yay!” all the boys cheer in unison before we trudge out to my sister’s minivan where I make sure everyone’s buckled in.  All the while, Cara never makes a peep but she also never takes her eyes off me.  Jordy wasn’t exaggerating when he said his sister’s quiet.

“I’ve got to call my dad,” Jordy says from the back of the van.

“Oh, okay.  Here, take my phone,” I say as I try to pass it back.

“It’s okay, I have a phone,” he answers, digging into his backpack.

“You have a phone?  Aren’t you seven?” I ask, shocked.

“Yeah, but my dad wants me to call him whenever I want to call him.  And he wanted me to call him when we left camp,” he explains.

Okay, that’s weird but, whatever.  I hear Jordy make the quick call to his dad, having the shortest conversation in the history of conversations.  I guess it’s inbred in men not to be phone talkers from an early age.

I make my way to the edge of town where Sophia and Lanny live, turning into their development.  It’s not really a development, but rather a bunch of houses spread out on large lots of land, a couple of acres each.  The houses are situated for privacy with the benefit of having neighbors.  I make my way through the wooded roads and turn on the last street.  They live near the end of Athica Lane, a long winding road lined thick with trees that are in full bloom this time of year. 

My brother-in-law, Lanny, grew up loving animals.  He’s a vet and wanted the country life.  My oldest sister, Sophia, is not country whatsoever.  They finally settled on this compromise about five years ago.  I think it’s beautiful here.  The homes have been here a few decades, the trees and woods surrounding them are huge, thick and lush.  It’s the best part about the area.  Sophia’s goal was to slowly update the house, a rambling ranch with large, spacious rooms.  But they just had their third baby last year, I think it’s going slower than she planned. 

I pull the minivan into the garage and as soon as we hit the house, the boys run toward the backyard with Lanny and Sophia’s two dogs.  The day camp must not be doing its job—they don’t look worn out in the least.  The neighbor kids must be here a lot because Cara comes in and hauls her little self onto a barstool, swinging her legs while looking up at me with her bright eyes. 

I go to the sink to wash my hands before I get started on the cookies and ask, “How was camp today, Cara?  You have fun?”

She still doesn’t say anything, but nods affirmatively. 

Hmm, this could be a long week.

I try again, “What was your favorite thing about today?”

She scrunches her nose, shrugging her shoulders almost to her ears silently.

“Did you make crafts?” I ask.

She nods.

“Did you play games?” I try.

She nods again.

“Did you look for bugs?” I grin.

She quickly shakes her head no.

“Did you eat bugs?” I grin bigger.

She finally grins, shaking her head no even quicker.

I smile and decide no one’s ever accused me of not being able to carry on a one-sided conversation, so I decide to go for it, “You know what my favorite part of today’s going to be?”

With big eyes, she gives her head a little shake.

“Cookies,” I start.  “I love to cook and bake.  I love it so much I made it my job.  But we’re not doing anything fancy today.  We’re gonna keep it simple, good old chocolate chip.  And even though it would make Sophia blow a gasket because of the raw eggs, we’re going to snack on cookie dough in the process because it’s too good not to.  But just you and me.  The boys don’t get any cookie dough because they didn’t want to help.  Their loss, don’t you think?”

I’m not sure she knows what to think, but she gives me another big eyed nod anyway.

“But what’s going to make these cookies special is we’re gonna let the ice cream get a little bit soft and then plop a hunk of it in between two cookies, squeezing them together for a sandwich.  Guess what we’re going to do then?” I ask.

If it can be believed, her beautiful bright eyes get even bigger.

“We’re going to eat them before dinner,” I smile.

And, finally.

My chocolate chip cookie rant wins me a grin and a giggle. 

“If you think that makes you smile, my chocolate chip cookie s’mores’ll knock your socks off,” I add and she giggles even more.  “Do you like to bake, Cara?”

In her sweet little voice, so tiny I might’ve missed it if I wasn’t listening close enough, she utters, “I bake with my grammy.”

I smile big at my new little friend who just whispered her first words to me, “Well then, I’m sure I would love your grammy.  Crawl up here, sweet girl, let’s get crackin’.”

She smiles back, crawls up to sit on the counter and we begin to bond over cookies. 

*****

I move around the kitchen to Bruno Mars, who’s Uptown Funk-ing me up, as I clean from the chocolate chip cookie ice cream sandwiches.  They were devoured by all, Cara included, who skipped out to play with the boys.  Sophia was right—Jordy and Cara are good kids, easy and fun to be around.  The afternoon was a rush and flew by before I knew it.

Cara opened up a tad.  She talked about her daddy and brother a bit, but mostly, she listened to me go on and on about food, my nieces and nephews, and well, pretty much anything else I felt like going on about. 

I barely hear a knock on the front door over my music. I quickly turn it down and yell before double-timing it to the front door, “Sorry, coming.” 

I get to the door, but as I’m opening it I have to keep the dogs back with my foot.   Lanny’s a vet, shouldn’t a vet have perfectly mannered dogs?  Henry is part Basset-part something or other and Ginger is a red haired Dachshund.  The two of them together are louder than the kids combined and bring berserko to a new level when someone’s at the door.

“No, Ginger,” I say, trying to keep them back. 

Over the commotion of the dogs, I hear a guttural, “You.”

That voice makes me freeze and I look up from the dogs, not caring if they run out the front door because I know they won’t go far.  I see none other than the brick wall from last week.  My eyes travel up another athletic ensemble, but clean this time.  He’s lost the ball cap and his dark blond hair is short, so short I might not be able to tell its dark blond if his goatee didn’t give it away.  But my eyes settle on his pissed-off bright-blue ones that are glaring, just as they did last week after he practically entered me into a wet T-shirt contest.

“You?” I bite back, but in a question.

“Who are you?” he demands.

Ah, hello?  Stranger-Danger 101.  No way am I telling him who I am so I ask right back, “Who are you?”

“I’m Lanny and Sophia’s neighbor.  Now who are you?”

“I’m Pai—wait,” I take a good look into his bright blue eyes.  I tip my head when I realize I’ve been looking into them all afternoon, but in a miniature, much sweeter creature who’s more endearing than the asshole standing before me.  I narrow my eyes, mumbling, “You can’t be.”

“I’m Jordy and Cara’s dad,” he informs through his frown.

“No,” I say, albeit distracted.  I turn to look through the house toward the backyard where the kids are playing while fighting with my head, trying to make it not so.  Looking back, I state while jutting my thumb over my shoulder, “Those two precious children cannot be yours.”

“You’re Sophia’s sister?” he keeps on.

“But…they’re practically perfect, as far as kids go.  And you’re…well,” I pause, searching for the appropriate word, not wanting to be a bitch.  I know I can be bitchy, but I hate being a bitch, so I opt for flipping my hand out and finishing with, “Not.”

“Shit,” he mumbles as he crosses his arms and shakes his head looking to his side. 

And from the side, I get to see him in profile.  Strong, masculine features with solid cheekbones carved into lightly tanned skin.  He has a hint of sun, suggesting he’s been outside doing something with purpose, as opposed to frolicking in the rays only to get some color.  And even though I’ve never appreciated facial hair on a man, his goatee is lush.  It frames his lips like a bowl of chocolate ganache that you want to dive into and devour, licking up every last gooey drop.  Maybe it’s because of the dark blond, but it looks soft, not wiry and prickly.  Not that I‘ve had any experience with manly facial hair, because I absolutely have not.  But his gives me the urge to expand my horizons in new and unchartered ways, which in turn, makes me fidget.

“I’ll make other arrangements for the rest of the week,” I hear and see him glaring down at me. 

I pull my attention away from his soft goatee and repeat, “Other arrangements?”

“The kids.  I’ll find someone else to watch ‘em.  We won’t have to see each other again,” he frowns.

“But, I like your kids,” I attest.  “We had fun today.  They must get it from their mom, they’re sweet.  I’m still shocked they could even be far distant cousins of yours, let alone your own.”

The brick wall huffs a somewhat sarcastic and frustrated breath, “Trust me, if they’re ‘sweet,’ they didn’t get it from their mom.”

Not understanding what that’s all about, I go on, “Well wherever they got it, they’re sweet and Noah and Cayden like having them here.  I don’t mind watching them, Cara and I baked cookies today.  She even talked to me a little bit.  I’ve made it my goal to get her to speak an entire paragraph by the end of the week.  Don’t rip that away from me, we bonded over cookie dough.  I’m pretty sure I can make that happen as long as sugar’s involved.”

“Cara talked to you?” he frowns again.

“What, she doesn’t talk?” I frown back.

“She’s shy, I can’t seem to pull her out of it,” he sighs.

“Well, I’m anything but shy so there’s no need to make other arrangements.  As long as you don’t dump Dr. Pepper on me, I’m sure we can muddle through the week.  You’ve already ruined my favorite tank,” I complain.

I don’t know if it’s the mention of Dr. Pepper or my favorite tank, but his eyes move over me in a way I can feel it.  I mean, I know I’m no catwalk model beauty queen, but it’s not like I’ve fallen out of the ugly tree.  I’ve had eyes rake over me plenty of times, but never where I can feel it.  And hell if the touch of his eyes dragging down my body doesn’t make me fidget again.  As if he caught my fidget, his blue eyes dart back up to mine.

“I’ll get the kids,” I say if for no other reason than to break his look and get him off my sister’s front porch.  I don’t need his eyes touching me any longer.

I walk myself to the patio door and sticking my head out, yell, “Jordy, Cara, your dad’s here!”

They all come bounding, little Cara and Cayden trailing behind the big boys.  The noise of kids’ voices rumble through the house as they make it to the front door ahead of me.  I hear Cara’s voice squeal, “Daddy,” about ten times louder than any sound she ever uttered with me today. 

And as I round the corner, I’m forced to stop in my tracks from the sight in front of me. 

The brick wall has picked Cara up, holding her high as he rubs his face in her neck, affirming my earlier notion that his goatee must be as soft as silk if it can make a five-year-old laugh when it tickles her.  And, as if the clouds have parted letting the sun shine through after forty days and forty nights, I see him smile through his lush goatee at his daughter while saying, “I missed my punkin’ pie.”  He then directs his gorgeous smile down at Jordy and places his big hand right on top of his head, “Hey, buddy.”